


Hot Blood, Hot Thoughts And Hot Deeds

by thelilacfield



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Professors, Desk Sex, F/M, Gratuitous Smut, The Author Regrets Nothing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-17
Updated: 2018-07-17
Packaged: 2019-06-11 16:52:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15319935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelilacfield/pseuds/thelilacfield
Summary: It is a truth universally acknowledged that Wanda Maximoff of the History department and Victor Shade of the English department have so much sexual tension that every single person in the building can feel the electric shock when they look at each other.The one where they're both professors.





	Hot Blood, Hot Thoughts And Hot Deeds

**A/N** **:** This is honestly just shameless smut. But it be like that sometimes. And this was written for a friend, so blame them.

Title from Shakespeare's  _Troilus and Cressida_. Because even smut needs a mildly pretentious title.

* * *

It is a truth universally acknowledged that Wanda Maximoff of the History department and Victor Shade of the English department have so much sexual tension that every single person in the building can feel the electric shock when they look at each other.

When they first met, it was manageable. He'd already been there long enough to be under consideration to head up the department, and she was the newest professor, trying to be professional and dress for the job she was brand new to. But within a month her skirts had shortened, her necklines gotten lower, and it became immediately obvious to anyone who spent more than two seconds in the company of either party that they had developed incredibly intense crushes on each other.

And everyone thought it would be fine. Sam Wilson of the Sports Education department led the betting pool and people believed the tension would break before Christmas. Then before Valentine's Day. Then before the end of the semester.

But, to their horror, the tension didn't break. Despite noticeable changes to the way both professors dressed, and incredibly obvious flirting, they remained outwardly just friends. And no one could comment on it, because it would only cause them both to go quiet and refuse to speak about it. They were simply resigned to watching her hand linger too long on his bicep, his gaze drop whenever she strolled casually into work in a low-cut shirt, and to wish at every office party that the tension would finally break.

It almost did at the Christmas party. Naturally, when Natasha Romanoff of the Law department had been placed in charge of the faculty Secret Santa she'd made sure it was rigged for the two professors to receive each other. And they obviously got each other the perfect gift, guessed immediately who it was from, and spent half the night gazing hotly into each other's eyes, dancing together as the bass rattled the floor, but  _nothing_. At the end of the night, she climbed into a cab with her lipstick still flawless, displaying a lot of slender pale leg and the ring on her necklace falling down the scandalously low neckline of her dress, but all he did was give her a smile and close her door. Absolutely no sign of a post-Christmas party hook-up to gossip about in the new year.

It left the faculty eager to see something happen.  _Anything_. Because watching two people refuse to act on their obvious attraction to each other is exhausting and constantly disappointing. Especially when she'll so blatantly wear her clothes tight and almost too revealing for work, and he'll wear anything she compliments him on again, and they'll touch each other as they talk and laugh a little too loudly at each other's jokes. All the other professors want is for them to be happy.

And, at least to them, that means finally breaking the tension with a marathon round of sex.

* * *

Tucking his sweater tighter into his slacks, running a hand through his hair, Vision knocks on the door neatly labelled  _Professor W. Maximoff_  and waits for the soft, "Come in," before he pushes it open, trying not to drop anything on the tray between his hands. Wanda is sitting at her desk as always, hair falling loose around her shoulders, and her white shirt is tight and slightly see-through. Just enough to be interesting, with the neckline low enough to match the length of her necklace, and he can see the curve of her smirk when his gaze drops and lingers. "Morning, Vizh. No classes?"

"Not yet, thank goodness, gives me a few hours to myself," he says, and sets his tray down on a clear surface, unloading his black coffee and her earl grey tea, and the plate of the best biscuits he managed to swipe from the department tin. "I thought you might need some stress relief."

"It's only eight thirty, you think so little of me!" she says, her eyes shining, and as she curls her fingers around her mug he follows the movement, his consciousness filing that away to add into another of the rather interesting dreams he's been having about her recently. "Thank you."

"What are you doing?" he asks, trying to peer at the pile of papers in front of her upside-down, and she smiles up at him. Making his heart do that same strange skipping beat that always happens around her. Has ever since she first walked into the building.

"Grading papers," she says shortly, scrawling a score on the top of one and flipping it onto another pile. "French Revolution. Not one of my favourite periods to teach."

"At least you're not lecturing on erotic poetry," he says, and she looks up at him with a wicked smile. "I'm dreading those papers."

"I'm sure the students like it," she says, suggestion heavy in her voice. "You read poetry to them in class, don't you?"

"I do," he says, and her eyes gleam.

"Perhaps I'll have to sneak into one of your lectures, Vizh," she says, and though she's teasing there's a sincerity in her words that makes desire flicker in his blood, his breath hitching a little when she shifts in her seat, bringing her arms closer to her sides to draw his attention back to her cleavage in that shirt that really probably is inappropriate for work.

She shifts in her chair again, rolling her shoulders, and frowns at the papers. "It's too early in the day for you to look so stressed, Wanda," he says softly, the care he has for her winding concern into his words, and she looks up with clouded eyes.

"Apparently I'm being considered for a promotion to department head," she says, clutching her pen a little tighter. "So I have to be able to do all this and balance it with everything else."

"You'd be a great department head," he says, and she gives him a soft smile. "But you need to unwind. You're no use to anyone overstressed, least of all yourself."

"Well, you bringing me tea helps," she says, taking a sip. "Maybe you can do that every morning."

"Perhaps I will," he says, and she grins. "But I believe I can do more." Draining his coffee, he sets the mug down and slips behind her chair, setting his hands gently on her shoulders. "May I?" She nods, and he tries not to notice how her breathing instantly turns shallower when his hands touch her. The material of her shirt is incredibly silky beneath his hands, slippery as he slowly kneads at her shoulders, and he has to clear his throat before he says, "This would be easier skin on skin."

"Wait," she breathes, and he swallows thickly when he realises she's unbuttoning her shirt, just enough to pull it off her shoulders, her skin bare and warm beneath his fingers. "Better?"

"Much," he says, trying not to sound rough or to betray to her exactly how affected he is by her. Concentrating on his hands, moving over her shoulders and her neck, finding knots of tension in her muscles and trying to smooth them out. Not to notice the hitches in her breath, or the way she moves under his hands, like she's chasing his touch.

She groans when he manages to soothe a particularly difficult knot at the base of her neck, a soft, " _Mmm_ ," that echoes in his mind, forces him to try to think very hard of cold showers. As she leans back in her chair, he can see the way her skirt has ridden up to the very tops of her thighs, offering a glimpse of lace where her thigh-high stockings end, and the sight makes him feel hot all over. Just the same as he did dancing with her at the Christmas party, when they came remarkably close to slipping away into the night as their mouths almost met beneath the swirling lights.

Her hair falls a certain way when she tilts her head to allow his hands easier movement, baring the curve of her neck, and he can't resist leaning down, feeling her shudder when he breathes just right across her skin. She doesn't protest, and he leans in closer to press his lips gently to her neck, and hears the breath rush out of her, sees her hands clench on the chair's armrests. "Is this a new massage technique I don't know about?" she asks, trying to tease, but he can hear the desperation twisted through her voice.

He kisses her neck again, and her hand rises to cup the back of his head, fingers sinking into his hair and tugging just right to make him groan against her skin. When he breaks away, their breathing heavy in the quiet of her office, she looks up at him with dark eyes, and he looks back. Years of tension swirling around them, of flirting and gazing at each other and near misses, and he's the one to break it first. Swiping an arm across her desk to send every scrap of paper on it fluttering to the floor, pens and erasers and paper clips bouncing out of her organiser, but her eyes stay on him.

The moment he leans down to kiss her, she throws her arms around his neck, bringing herself out of her chair, and he's holding her, moulding their bodies together. She tastes like toothpaste, her lipstick slick against his mouth, and she has her hands tracing his shoulders and her neck to cup his face, pulling him closer, her tongue tracing over his lower lip, his helpless groan muffled against her mouth. When they tear themselves apart, his hands still in a vice-grip on her waist, he sees that her shirt is unbuttoned so low that the black lace of her bra is on full display, a flush spilling down her chest, and her eyes are shining dark as she whispers, "Lock the door."

He rushes to turn the lock, trembling fingers fumbling with it a few times, and shoves a box against it for good measure, and when he goes back to her she's removed her necklace and rings, and he draws her immediately back into a kiss. Kissing her is intoxicating, after so long dreaming about it, running his hands through the silky spill of her hair and over every part of her body he's ever wished to, and she's so responsive. Groaning when he kisses her neck, her hips jolting forwards into his when he curves his hands over her ass, clutching at him hard enough to hurt when he works his hands between their bodies to trace the edges of her bra.

"Are we really doing this?" he grits out, her lips on his neck distracting, and she leans back against her desk, skirt rucked up and shirt half-unbuttoned, looking so wanton he can't believe he's stopping when all he really wants to do is take her apart.

"Unless you want to stop," she whispers, and presses her hand against his erection, caressing back and forth until he groans her name. "But I don't think you do."

"You'd be right," he says, and work the remaining buttons of her shirt open, folding it as carefully as he can and setting it on her chair, kicking that obstacle aside and lifting her onto her desk, her legs tangling around him immediately. Letting her pull his sweater off, unbutton his shirt and toss it uncaringly to the ground, and kissing her again, losing himself in her.

She grits out his name for the first time as his tongue traces the line of her collarbone, clutching at the back of his head, and he returns to her mouth, feeling drunk on her, head spinning. Drunk on the way she bucks her hips into his when he cups his hands over her ass and squeezes, her squirming as he traces the line of her spine up to the clasp of her bra, her breaking the kiss to whisper his name when he unclasps it and drops it on the other side of her desk, pulling back to admire her. "You're beautiful," he breathes, and she smiles softly.

"I've been waiting for this since the first time I saw you," she whispers, and pulls him back to her, into a deep, lingering kiss that works its way into his blood, down to his bones, the grip of her legs around him tightening to bring their hips together, and he has to be the one to break the kiss and groan as she grinds against him, her skirt riding up even higher with every roll of her hips and a soft smirk on her lips. " _Fuck_ , I want you in me."

"Let me enjoy you first," he says, and kisses her swollen lips once more before he dips downwards, enjoying every hitch in her breath as he leaves another dull red mark on her neck, and trails kisses lower, over her collarbones, the hollow of her neck, excitement frantic in his gut when he reaches her breasts and she moans at the first kiss, nails digging into his shoulders. His hand works up beneath her skirt, feeling the smooth skin of her thigh, tracing patterns upwards until he can touch her, the first press of his fingers against her clit matching his tongue against her nipple, and she moans so loudly he stops, jerking back. "We can't get caught, Wanda."

"Fuck getting caught," she snarls breathlessly, and he grins, returning to his ministrations, moving his tongue back and forth until she's gasping, her hips jerking erratically against his fingers. "God,  _fuck_ , you're so  _good_  at this."

"Am I?" he asks, and she glares at him, yanking him up into a kiss, her hands sliding down between them to unbuckle his belt, fingers working beneath his waistband to touch him, her touch eager and confident. " _Oh_ , Wanda...so are you." He cups his hands over her breasts, squeezes, torn between keeping going or just taking her now.

She makes a sound at the back of her throat that sets his head spinning, breaks the kiss and looks at him with eyes glazed with lust. " _Please_ ," she whispers, throaty and desperate, and he can't help himself any more.

One more kiss, and he finds the zip at the side of her skirt, pulling it down as smoothly as he can, and she lifts her hips to help him work it down, her legs spread for him, and he stares at her for a long moment taut with tension, trying to process this moment he's waited so long for. Until she moans again, something resembling his name, and he breathes, "Turn around."

She does, and he sweeps her hair aside to kiss her neck, enjoying every breath that's more like a moan, her impatient squirming against him, until the blissful moment that he sinks into her. Her drawn-out groan of his name, the frantic way they clasp hands, and he has to press his forehead against her shoulder and breathe slowly just to calm down. Raise his lips to her ear, feeling her shudden through his body too when he whispers, "You were worth the wait."

The world is lit up with flashes of white-hot light when he starts to move, completely lost in her. Kissing her shoulders, the back of her neck, smoothing his hands over her breasts and belly, her moaning growing louder and louder, desperate hitched breaths of his name. "You feel incredible," he says, and she reaches back to clutch at him, twisting her head to kiss him, the angle awkward and the connection messy, but it sends sparks through him.

"Stop," she says suddenly, and he stills, lowering his hand to cup gently over her hip. "Are you close?"

"Very," he says, and can see the curve of her smile. "Are you?"

"Yes," she says. "And I wanna look into your eyes when I come."

"Oh  _God_ ," he groans, and pulls out of her so she can turn around, lifts her onto the desk and thrusts again, and kisses her hungrily, sloppy and wild and desperate, her nails tearing into his back and her head thrown back, her hand working between her thighs to touch herself. Until he links their fingers together to replace her hand with his own, and she's gasping his name, flushed and shaking and moving in frantic jerks, and she's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

"Harder," she breathes, and he tries, and she cries out so loud they can't possibly manage to go unheard, her eyes falling closed and her movement against him growing even more frantic. " _Fuck_ , Vizh,  _fuck_ , oh  _God_  right there, faster faster  _faster_ , I'm gonna come, please harder, oh  _God_ ,  _Vizh_!"

He doesn't last more than thirty seconds after she comes, shuddering against him, until he groans her name and stills, dropping his forehead onto her shoulder and just breathing. Head still spinning, trembling as she strokes his hair, tips his head upwards to kiss him, slow and soft and sweet. When they break apart, he's lost in her eyes, still dark and shining, cupping her face between his hands and unable to help smiling at her. "So...we did that," he says, and she laughs breathlessly.

"I've wanted that for three years," she says, and kisses him. "You know you're really good, right?"

"I  _was_  trying to impress you," he says with a slight shrug, and she grins.

"Well then consider your mission accomplished," she says, and he kisses her again, tangling his fingers into her hair, holding her tight. When they part, her eyes slant to the clock, and she hisses out, " _Shit_ , I have a class in twenty minutes!"

They dress quickly, trying to look like two responsible professors who didn't spend the best part of an hour having sex in one of their offices, and he keeps finding himself smiling giddily every time his gaze strays to her. When she straightens up fully-dressed again, she grimaces at herself in the mirror propped against her wall and says, "Now this outfit served its purpose, it just looks like a cheap slutty professor Halloween costume."

"You look stunning," he says, and she smiles at him in the mirror. He fidgets for a moment before he blurts out, "So is this it?"

"What do you mean?" she asks, and understanding blossoms on her face when she looks at him. "Oh...Vizh, of course not. You really think all I wanted you for was one hook-up in my office and nothing after that?"

"I...maybe?" he says uncertainly, and she just smiles. Crosses the room and kisses him softly, smiling up into his eyes. "You don't?"

"Of course not," she says sweetly. "What time do you finish today?"

"Seven," he says, and she tilts her head up at him.

"I finish at six," she says. "So, what if when you finish tonight you catch a cab to my place? I'll make dinner, pour some wine, get a movie out, and we can have a nice evening in."

"Are you asking me out, Professor Maximoff?" he asks, arching an eyebrow, and she giggles.

"It's not my fault you wouldn't act on your feelings until I wore a see-through shirt," she says, and stretches up to kiss his cheek. "I'll see you tonight, babe."

With the sexual tension finally resolved, Vision has to admit that it was never just lust he felt for Wanda. Sitting on her couch that night, her cat watching for any crumbs falling to the floor, seeing her legs stretched out in shorts and the sleeves of a too-big sweater covering her hands, he's aware that he's falling for her.

But when he wakes up in her bed to her snuffling softly in her sleep, her head on his chest, he kisses the top of her head and corrects himself. He's  _fallen_  for her.

And he's pretty sure, when she wakes up and smiles at him and leans in to kiss him, and makes them both late for work, striding in after hastily untangling their hands to an entire room of faculty members hiding their smirks behind their morning coffees and bagels, that she's fallen for him too.

 


End file.
